I had a little trouble with this one but I wrote something! A little sad but it's what came to mind when I was trying to figure out what H should stand for. Hope you enjoy :)
Day 8. H is for Holiday.
I was named because I'm a Christmas miracle. At least that's what dad used to say. Every year it's the same thing; we visit mother's grave, go visit grandma in the hospital, and come home to make a quick dinner usually of Campbell's chunky soup. I've stopped crying when we visit mother's grave, though dad still gets down on his knees, tears pouring from his eyes and a prayer tumbling from his lips.
When I was younger I didn't understand why dad always cried at mother's grave, but I know now. It's because he wishes it was mother beside him, not me. He says I'm a Christmas miracle but I also took his wife from him. I don't blame him; there are times when I wish I could do more. But being fourteen leaves me with little options.
At grandma's she always smiles and gives me another picture of mother and father. I'm not sure where they keep coming from, but it's a new one every year. She blames me too, I suppose. I always smile at her, even when she says "my love is waiting" and gets ready to pass on. She never does though. This year is the same. As we're leaving I hear her wish for another Christmas miracle. This one being her death though, not the birth of her only grandchild.
At home, dad pulls out the pot and gets the chunky soup going. He leaves to his bedroom, the only room in our one bedroom apartment, to get a drink. He never does it in front of me, but I know. I always know. I watch the soup as he goes to drown his sorrows. I suppose I forgot something in our Christmas tradition; dad never makes it to dinner.
I pull the soup off the stove and dish out some for me. I walk to his bedroom and push the door open slightly. Dad's lying on his bed, drool coming out of his mouth and a bottle of vodka clutched in his arms like a teddy bear. I sigh and step inside, arranging the blanket so it covers him. I make sure his alarm is set for tomorrow morning before leaving the room.
I grab my bowl and sit at the kitchen table in the pink and white chair I picked for myself when I was six. I suppose I should be grateful there's a roof over my head. I just wish mother was here. I believe that if she was, we'd be living in a house with a backyard. Maybe a puppy. Dad would enjoy life, work for us and not just to keep the booze coming in.
I wash my bowl, put the rest of the soup in a tupperware container and stick it in the fridge before washing the pot as well. I head to the living room where my mattress is lying in the corner of the room, the pink sheets I picked out the same day as the chair crumpled on top. We have a TV and a couch, though we only get five channels and the couch has seen better days. I've vowed to myself that I'll make something of myself. I'll help dad get out of this hole and help him enjoy life. I try year round, getting excellent grades and applying to jobs, but nobody seems to want to hire a fourteen year old, not even to wash dishes. Dad doesn't know I've been applying to jobs. I fear it would drive him further away from me.
I fall onto my mattress, curling up on my side. "Merry Christmas, mom," I whisper to the air. And just like every other year, I close my eyes and picture the brown haired woman I take after whispering "Merry Christmas, Holly."
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